Page 9 of Midnight in Paris

Libby

You’re overthinking! I can sense it!

Sophie

Damn! Rumbled! OK, how about this? I’ll buy myself an enormous millefeuille to numb the pain?

Libby

Atta girl!

She slipped the phone back into her bag and continued to walk, wishing she felt half as upbeat as she’d tried to appear to the two most important women in her life.

5

THE FIRST SUMMER – 2011

The train pulled away and she sat opposite Tom sipping sparkling wine and looking out of the window as the scenery flashed past: the apartment blocks with balconies full of washing or children’s toys; the graffitied walls and tunnels; the rows of tiny terraces stretching away – then they moved farther from London and she watched the view transform from green and natural to built-up and back again, and people’s lives ebbed and flowed past her like a river.

Tom, uncharacteristically, had his nose in a book – disinterested in what, for him, was quite an ordinary journey, she supposed.

In her bag, the brand-new passport she’d had to borrow money from Mum to buy, the photo embarrassingly recent. She’d never left the country before, never been farther than Cornwall. Now she was racing towards the coast on a train that ran under the water and would take her to the city she’d dreamt about seeing for years.

‘Have you never been on a train before?’ His voice broke through her thoughts.

She blushed. ‘Of course I have! Just not this one, is all.’

He laughed as if it were cute that she was so untravelled, folded down the corner of his page and moved across to sit next to her, nuzzling against her neck.

‘Get off!’ she said, laughing, nudging him with her elbow.

He laid his head elaborately on her shoulder. ‘I just want some attention,’ he said. ‘What have those buildings got that I haven’t?’ He widened his eyes in a way that he clearly hoped was appealing.

She looked at him, amused. ‘Seriously?’ she said. ‘You’re jealous of some buildings?’

‘I’m jealous of anything you look at likethat,’ he said, flashing his trademark cheeky smile and straightening up. He drew a tiny MP3 player from his pocket and offered her one of the earphones. ‘Soundtrack?’ he said.

She’d actually have preferred to sit quietly, lose herself in her thoughts. But instead, she took the small, plastic, foam-covered bud from him. The Black Eyed Peas began playing in her right ear, the sounds of the train continued in her left. Tom reached and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze, and she settled back against the headrest, enjoying the closeness of him, the music, and allowing herself at last a little excitement at what was to come.

What was to come, it turned out, was a bog-standard hotel, a three-star establishment in a building that was majestic on the outside but tatty inside. She was rather relieved when they walked in, although Tom’s face flushed a little when he saw the size of the room.

‘It looked better on the website,’ he said.

‘Don’t be silly, it’s lovely. We’re in Paris, for God’s sake!’ She walked to the window and fiddled with the catch, eventually finding purchase and opening the windows, flinging them wide then standing, looking down on the narrow street, the peoplemeandering or striding along, the bicycles, the chatter, the sound of distant music. She breathed deeply. She washere.

‘We can check in somewhere else if you like,’ he said, kicking the leg of a dressing table.

‘Why?’

‘It’s a shithole.’

She looked at him. Was he serious? ‘Tom, it’s fine. It’s clean, it’s got a bed. We’re in Paris. It’s good.’

He lifted a shoulder, reluctantly acquiescing. ‘I guess.’

He seemed childish, suddenly, and she felt a flash of annoyance. ‘Come on. Let’s not waste time on the room.’

‘I guess I’m just…’

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